1.
He was never as fond of ocean
as he was of desert, perhaps because
he was born near the former
and didn’t see the latter until
he’d already learned what it meant
to long for escape. After that, 
he imagined joy as a dry place
that bloomed seldom but riotously.

2.
He frequently had a certain look — 
a barely downturned face, 
sharply raised eyes and brows,
neutralized mouth — a look that said
he was judging you; not necessarily
in a moral way; more like assessing
the level of concern
he should allow for you
should your contact continue.

3.
When he loved someone
as fiercely as he could, 
he could not love himself 
equally fiercely
at the same time.
He did not love many that way
but neither did his self-love
ever rise to such a level
that he loved himself much 
at all in the times
between those strong loves.

4.
Upon his death, 
a white bird rose from 
the peak of his roof and
flew to the nearest ocean
to apologize. A brown bird
rose from a bush in the backyard
and flew to the closest desert
to apologize. A red bird 
rose from pavement outside
and flew to each lover in turn 
to apologize. A black bird
landed on an oak in the front yard,
turned its head down, raised its eyes,
and began the hard judging 
of the life that had just ended.

There is a light
in a glass of whisky
that never goes out
as it travels 
to dark places.
As it goes
on its way it is
its own torch
and what sights
it sees in 
there, in those 
normally unlit 
crevices — things
in some cases
not seen for years,
unexamined for 
decades. Take,
for example, stories
of an absent father
who disappeared seeking
those same items 
the same way years before —
there those stories are,
tucked into a cranny 
above the acid fields
of the deep belly. Or
the memory of
first taste at twelve,
chased by 
the memory of
that grapefruit soda
chugged after to cool
the flame that burned
again all the way back up
to the light and out again
leaving you heaving,
swearing never again,
no way, never, no way 
never no more; that’s
all there in the same
shadow as the others
and all the light there is down there
is in the first, second, third, fourth
glasses of gold, dense 
shine barking briefly
in the tongue, its hazy
illumination upon those
secret places counterbalanced
by how it sweeps fact up
into emotion and then,
after a while, the light,
ever a lie, indeed 
goes out while leaving more
dank remnants behind
inside to soon be sought again
with the breaking of the next
wax seal, the next crack of
the cheap tin on the cap
of the next bottle of flame.

Bodies on fire on Green Street:
once leafy and pleasant, it
now has become
a scourging field.

You smell this smoke
and are initiated into
an intimacy with those
whose bodies are burned

as well as with those
who burn them.
It is now
a relationship,

a greasy coupling among
actors and those
acted upon. If you think
you can leave Green Street

in horror to regain
some level of innocence,
think again: sniff, breathe,
cough it out, vomit, it matters

not at all. You cannot detach
from it, just as every lover
leaves a mark within. Even if
the trees recover, even if 

a canopy of life
returns here,
you will be a partner
in these deaths

forever and
will never pass 
this corner again
without holding your breath.

It’s such a good
spring day here —
good birds calling,
good shoots
of green, good sights
of people on foot,
lightly dressed and smiling
as they see the good gold sun — 

that it becomes
hard to believe
that it’s also spring in places
where the calling
is the sirens
of ambulances,
the people are
heavily dressed in blood,
and the sun
is somewhere behind
the smoke
from a bomb. 

The sky negates
what the air whispers:
that this
could happen anywhere
and everywhere
soon.

In spite of that

I go outside
and plant a seed.

I pray it takes root
and that I live
to see it full grown,

that I live to share
its fruit someday
with someone yet
unknown to me.
On that day

may we sit and speak
of good, of green and gold,
of spring

and how it never fails.

My left thumb,
numb; left big toe,
numb; the rest of both feet
perpetually burning
after first daily contact
with the floor; lately
both hands are beginning
to tingle as well.
They all still work but
are starting to cost so much
in comfort and ease 
that I’m beginning 
to avoid using them,
some days 
doing next to nothing:

staring at screens
large and small instead;
plotting dark points on 
black graphs in my head;
making this agony so mythic
that it keeps me in my bed;
holding a grudge against myself
that pushes me closer to dead.

Still, there are those moments
when the window works,
the breeze works,
the sunlight works
to remind me
that I still have senses 
that can be trusted
to offer joy as needed; still,

in spite of the long needles
in my soles,
the pricks and flames
that rise in my skin
at the slightest brush,
most days

I get up and see
how much balance
I can salvage
as I rock between those
extremes from
fearful waking to
exhausted, relieved
sleep.